Beat the Impossible
by CamsthiSky
Summary: Dick and Tim talk after Dick comes home from Spyral.


**wearetakingthehobbitstogallifrey asked: For the angst/fluff prompt: "Do you hate me?" Dick and one of his brothers, either one can say it!**

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"Do you hate me?" Dick asks, his chin on top of his knees. His eyes never leave Tim.

Tim closes his eyes and leans back into the couch, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

It's the first time since Dick came back permanently from his undercover assignment that the two of them could just—sit here and talk. And, when Dick had said talk, Tim hadn't really thought they were actually going to _talk_ talk. He'd just thought it was a ploy to get back on Tim's good side. Maybe a bribe or two, a few hugs and smiles.

Instead, Tim gets a big brother who looks so _lost._ A lump grows in his throat the longer the words linger in the air between them.

 _Do you hate me?_

"No," Tim says honestly, and he opens his eyes to meet Dick's on the other side of the couch.

Dick doesn't look relieved or happy, or anything like that. Instead he looks sad. His blue eyes are harsh and cold, but it's nothing directed at Tim. It's all directed at himself, and if Tim were braver, maybe he'd reached over and wrap Dick in his arms like he's seen Bruce do sometimes, and he'd whisper, _I could never hate you, Dick._

But he's not that brave. And the words aren't true.

"But you did." It's not a question.

"Yeah." Tim doesn't elaborate.

Dick seems to understand anyways. "You should," he says, his shoulders tensing slightly. "Hate me, I mean. Still. I did a lot of horrible things."

"It wasn't your fault," Tim tells him automatically, but even to his own ears it doesn't quite sound right.

"Maybe," Dick says, quieter this time. His smile's gone bitter at the edges, too. "Or maybe it was my fault a little. I faked my death, Timmy."

Tim shakes his head, his heart clenching. "I saw the cowl feed."

Dick's eyes darken and he falters slightly. Tim pretends he doesn't see a slight shiver travel through his brother's body. Pretends he doesn't see Dick's fists clench harder into his sweatpants. Pretends like it's not killing him to see Dick react like this.

"I see."

"I saw what Lu—what he did," Tim says. "And I'm sorry that he did it."

"It's over now," Dick tells him, but he's not meeting Tim's eyes.

"No," and Tim digs his fingers into his own sweats. "No, I don't think it really is."

This is always going to be something that affects Dick, Tim thinks, just like Jason's death still affects _Jason._ And just like Jason's death, it's going to have lasting consequences. Things are never going to be the same between Tim and Dick. Not anymore. With Damian's death, and then with Dick faking his death, there'd been something lost between the two of them, and no amount of scrambling is going to bring it back.

As far as Tim's concerned, that thing's been torn to pieces. Irreparable.

But then again, Dick Grayson's always been the one to try to beat the impossible. And sometimes, he wins. Tim hopes he wins this time, too, but he's not putting any hope on the line. He can't afford to.

"I guess you're right," Dick says. He pauses, and then he continues, "But you don't hate me now?"

Tim blows out a heavy breath. "No."

Dick uncurls himself, stands up, and the tension falls away from him with an ease that Tim's always been jealous of. _Admired,_ a part of him thinks. But then another part of him wonders if he'll ever be able to admire Dick the same way again. Dick slips on that easy mask, barely a hint of sadness showing through, and he stoops down to press a kiss to Tim's forehead. Tim lets him, and he finds himself relaxing just a bit when Dick kneels right in front of him.

"For the record, I _am_ sorry," Dick says, and he's still smiling as his hands find Tim's wrists and squeeze lightly. Tim wishes he wouldn't do that. Wouldn't try to hide the way he's most assuredly breaking down on the inside. Maybe if he didn't, Tim would feel okay breaking down, too. Dick squeezes again. "You have every right to hate me, Tim. But I'm going to make it up to you."

"I don't think you can," Tim whispers thickly. "You were _dead,_ Dick."

"Yeah," Dick says. "I was. But I'm here now to try, if you'll let me."

Tim nods his head, and when Dick pulls him in for a hug, pets his hair and just _presses_ , if Tim cries a bit, well. No one has to know, right?


End file.
